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Their journey led them to the village of Bree, to a crumbling inn called the Prancing Pony. There, they met a grim, weathered Ranger named Strider, who sat in the shadows with a broken sword at his belt. “You draw far too much attention, young hobbits,” he muttered. And when the Ringwraiths attacked their inn room, stabbing empty beds with wicked knives, Strider led them into the wild—through marsh and moor, under the gaze of ancient watchtowers, until they reached the hill of Weathertop.
“You shall not pass!” he cried, and his staff shattered against the Balrog’s sword. The bridge collapsed. The Balrog fell into the abyss—but its whip lashed out and caught Gandalf by the ankle. He fell, crying, “Fly, you fools!” and vanished into the darkness.
Their path led them south, over the frozen pass of Caradhras—a mountain that roared with unnatural snow. When the mountain defeated them, they dared the dark road beneath the world: the Mines of Moria. In the great hall of Dwarrowdelf, they found only dust and bones. The Dwarves had dug too deep. A terror from the deep ages—a Balrog, a demon of flame and shadow—rose against them. Gandalf stood on the Bridge of Khazad-dûm, facing the creature of fire.
Finally, Frodo stood before them all, small and wounded, and spoke the words that decided the fate of the world: “I will take it. I will take the Ring to Mordor. Though I do not know the way.” lord of the rings film 1
On that lonely height, the Ringwraiths found them. Frodo, defying the terror, put on the ring to escape—and was immediately plunged into the wraith-world, a pale, shadowed realm where the Dark Lord’s servants were terrible and clear. The Witch-king of Angmar drove a Morgul-blade into Frodo’s shoulder. A shard of ice-cold evil lodged near his heart.
And so, under cover of night, Frodo slipped out of Hobbiton with his loyal gardener, Samwise Gamgee. They were soon joined by two unlikely companions: the mischievous Meriadoc “Merry” Brandybuck and the stout-hearted Peregrin “Pippin” Took. Together, the four hobbits fled east, dodging the terrifying cries of the Black Riders and the prying eyes of spies.
Frodo awoke in Rivendell—the Last Homely House east of the sea. There, Elrond the Half-elven healed him. And there, a great council was called. Representatives of Elves, Dwarves, and Men gathered to decide what to do with the One Ring. But as they argued—Boromir, son of the Steward of Gondor, urging them to use the ring as a weapon; Gimli the Dwarf shattering his axe in rage at an ancient insult—the ring revealed its true power: it turned friends against one another with whispers of glory and fear. Their journey led them to the village of
Had Arwen, the Elf-queen of Rivendell, not come riding like a storm wind on a white horse, Frodo would have faded into a wraith himself. She carried him across the rushing Ford of Bruinen, where she raised her hand and called down a flood of water shaped like charging horses, sweeping the Nine away.
As Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli knelt by the dying Boromir, Frodo stood alone on the far bank of the river. Samwise, who could never be left behind, waded into the water after him, nearly drowning. Frodo pulled him up. Sam gasped, “I made a promise, Mr. Frodo. Don’t you leave him, Samwise Gamgee. And I don’t mean to. I don’t mean to.”
He left the ring behind for his young cousin, Frodo, along with a warning from the wizard Gandalf the Grey: Keep it safe. And when the Ringwraiths attacked their inn room,
The Fellowship fled, weeping, into the golden woods of Lothlórien. There, the Lady Galadriel revealed her great power: she showed Frodo a vision of the future—of the Shire burning, of Samwise weeping, of a world enslaved—unless the Ring was destroyed. And she gave him a phial: the Light of Eärendil’s star, to be a light in dark places.
But the Ring had already begun to poison the Fellowship. On the grassy shores of the River Anduin, Boromir tried to take the Ring from Frodo by force. The hobbit fled, invisible, his trust shattered. The orcs of Saruman attacked then, blowing their foul horns, and in the chaos, Merry and Pippin were taken, and Boromir fell defending them, pierced by many black arrows.
In the peaceful green hills of the Shire, where hobbits thought of nothing more than second breakfasts and the blooming of the mallorn tree, a quiet darkness was stirring. For sixty years, the hobbit Bilbo Baggins had kept a secret in his pocket—a golden ring that made its wearer invisible. On the eve of his eleventy-first birthday, he vanished during his own grand speech, using the ring to slip away from his startled guests.
For three years, Frodo kept the ring hidden, but Gandalf did not forget it. He returned with troubling news. The ring was not a simple trinket. It was the One Ring, forged by the Dark Lord Sauron in the fires of Mount Doom. Sauron had poured his cruelty, his malice, and his will to dominate all life into that single band of gold. And now, Sauron had learned the ring was awake. The Dark Lord’s nine servants—the Ringwraiths, shapeless terrors who once were kings of Men—had entered the world again. They were hunting for Baggins.
The Shire was no longer safe.